


Vices

by kryptidkat



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album)
Genre: Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nothing happens onscreen, Recovery, Self-Harm, be safe, read responsibly ok darlings?, suicide mention (topic of discussion only), unrelated to the SH though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptidkat/pseuds/kryptidkat
Summary: When it comes to finding some small escape from the relentless neon buzz of anxiety in his veins, Party doesn't think twice about the cost.Just when Kobra thought he knew all of Party’s darkest secrets, another comes to light. Surprisingly, it’s Ghoul who steps in to help.Kobra POV, then Ghoul.





	1. Kobra

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post: https://anthemofthezones.tumblr.com/post/150548335713/random-sad-killjoy-thought-ghoul-comes-up-to. It was supposed to just be a drabble but I got a bit carried away. Oops.

The clap was over fairly quickly. 

They’d been on their way back from a routine supply run when they got jumped by...Kobra glanced around. Eight or nine of them, it looked like. The firefight itself had been a blur. They usually were. For him, anyway. Which was just as well.

For some reason, he was several paces from the others. He wondered vaguely how they'd all gotten separated and so far away from the trans am sitting empty on the far side of the dusty plain. Didn't really matter now, he guessed. 

He saw a flicker in the corner of his eye and turned. Several yards off, the Girl’s light-up sneakers flashed as she darted from fallen drac to fallen drac to collect their weaponry, no nonsense. Kobra smiled a little. Good for her. He turned some more, shading his eyes from the sun with one hand. Ghoul and Jet were coming toward him and nearby, Party was...

Limping. Shit. 

Kobra ran over. “You good?”

Party kept walking. “Shiny.”

“What happened?”

“Got reckless.” Party's stride quickened.

Kobra had to break into a half-jog alongside him to keep up. Blood was soaking through a laserbolt wound on the outside of Party's left upper thigh. He couldn’t see the extent of the damage. “That looks bad.” 

“Then don’t look.”

“Party, lemme sterilize it before it dries on. You don’t want the blood gluing your pants stuck to that gash.”

“I’ll take care of it at the diner.” 

“No you won’t. We're cleaning it now.” Kobra grabbed his sleeve. 

“Leave it alone!” 

The genuine force behind the shove Party gave him took Kobra by surprise. Undeterred, Kobra grabbed him again and tried to wrestle him down onto the nearest rock. “House rules, motherfucker. No – ow! – leavingthescenewithout – first – fucking – aid. Ghoul!” he hollered for backup as another shove sent Kobra reeling. “Party, what the hell!” 

Ghoul came running and skidded into the fray, tackling Party’s uninjured leg before he could kick Kobra in the teeth. 

“Get the fuck off!” Party writhed and nearly escaped their grasp. 

Jet arrived, thank Destroya, and threw an arm around Party’s torso to restrain his flailing limbs. He lifted him bodily off the ground and sat him down onto the boulder. “What’s gotten into you? Let him look at it!” 

Party was beyond reasoning with. He wouldn't stop struggling, pupils blown wide with panic, gasping for breath too uncontrollably to have the oxygen to cuss them out. Jet and Ghoul had to keep him down as Kobra knelt beside him and pulled the knife from his belt. 

“Sorry, Party,” he said. “I know you liked these. Don’t move or you will get sliced, ‘kay?” 

Party choked out a strange huff of laughter at the words and fell still, tense and panting, when Kobra’s hand brushed his leg. But even at the most desperate Kobra had ever seen him Party had never stooped to begging, and he didn't beg now. 

“Kobra,” was all he said, in an odd, strangled voice. 

That was when Kobra should have noticed Party wasn’t merely overadjitated from the firefight, or getting protective of his favorite pants, or just being antagonistic for the principle of the thing. 

Kobra had a job to do, though. So he ignored him and began sawing through the denim. 

All the fight left Party then, and he looked away. 

It was awkward going, trying to hack through the tough fabric without nicking skin. He needed to sharpen this blade. Jet and Ghoul didn’t let go, still half expecting a fakeout at any moment. Kobra eventually got all the way around the thigh and down the outside seam. He gingerly started peeling away the bloodstained pant leg. 

“Buck up, pansy. Look on the shiny side,” Ghoul was saying. “New pair of shorts. Just what you ne – ” He didn’t finish the sentence. 

“Jesus,” Jet murmured, sounding pained. 

Kobra examined the wound more closely. It wasn’t that bad. Just a graze, really. Not deep, not hot enough to cauterize the flesh, which was the only reason it was bleeding so much. Jet usually wasn't such a drama queen about...

Then he saw them and his stomach twisted. 

The pale skin of Party’s leg, from thigh to knee as far around as Kobra could see, was littered with scars. More scars than untouched skin. All superficial, but years of them—layered, haphazard. Some were old and faded, some raised and white. The worst were far too new, still angry pink and scabbed over. 

God. Not Party. Not this. Kobra sat back on his heels, head reeling, and tried to remember how to breathe. 

Focus. Focus. 

He couldn't freak out. Party wouldn’t want him to freak out. 

Kobra looked up to search his Party's face. Party was looking out at nothing, expressionless, like he wasn't even aware what was happening anymore.

_ Party why, why didn’t you come to me, why didn’t you say anything, why couldn’t I help, why wouldn’t you let me he _

Focus. 

Ghoul and Jet were waiting for him to do something. 

Kobra tried not to think about what Party’s other leg must look like. 

Focus.

The laser wound still needed cleaning.

Focus.

It had probably only been a few seconds. Kobra willed his hands to stop shaking. He swallowed hard and began peeling the rest of the charred flakes of denim out of the oozing gash.

It was the only task in the world. 

Party stiffened abruptly, and Kobra froze. 

“Jet,” Party said. 

Startled, Jet looked at him—then followed his gaze. “Shit.” 

The Girl had noticed their huddle and was running toward them. 

Jet made a split second decision to trust Party not to move when he let go, and ran to intercept her. 

Ghoul tightened his hold as a precaution, but Party had no reason to take advantage of Jet’s absence anymore. Instead he just watched numbly as Jet knelt down and said something to the Girl, pointing to the car. The Girl nodded, eager to help, and sprinted off. 

Kobra ducked his head again and got back to work. Though Party’s warning and Jet’s quick thinking had bought him a little precious time, he still had to finish this, quickly. 

As laser injuries went, the Girl had seen far worse. He knew that wasn't what Party cared if she saw. 

Jet came back. “Couple minutes,” he told Kobra. 

Right. “Whiskey?” Kobra asked Ghoul. His voice came out strange. 

For once, Ghoul didn’t bitch about them using his personal alcohol stash for first aid. He dug a flask out of a cargo pocket and handed it over.

In any circumstance, Kobra always hated this part. _ Sorry, Party_. He poured it liberally over the gash. 

Party tightened his jaw and didn’t make a sound. 

Jet held out a roll of gauze – Where did he conjure this stuff from? He was a walking ER – and Kobra took it and started wrapping the wound. 

By the time the Girl returned with a canteen of water, Party’s leg was dressed from thigh to knee, safely concealed from her scrutiny. Kobra sat back and wiped his fingers on a sort of clean scrap of fabric. They started trembling again. 

He felt Jet's hand rest on the top of his head briefly, a silent praise for him managing to keep his shit together.

“You good?” the Girl asked Party, eyebrows scrunched together with worry. She offered him the canteen. 

Party didn’t take it and didn’t answer. His eyes were distant again. 

“He’s fine. Let’s get home.” Ghoul pulled Party’s arm over his shoulder and began walking him toward the trans am. 

It was a subdued ride back. 


	2. Kobra

When they arrived at the diner Party promptly disappeared into his room and shut the door. 

Pacing his own room adjacent to Party’s — it used to be some sort of office so it wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for pacing, sort of — Kobra chewed on the side of his thumb and tried to think of what the hell he was supposed to do. 

He was still pacing when he heard the feverish scritch of pencil on sketchpad through the thin wall. Party was...doodling? Weird, but whatever. At least he wasn’t doing anything destructive. 

Kobra felt sick all over again. 

Party should know better. It was doubly dangerous out here, without reliable access to proper antiseptic, when it would be so easy for infection to set in. How could he be so stupid? Kobra wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. He also wanted to hug him and never let him go. Was he that fucked up in the head? What kind of warped logic would compel someone turn on themselves like that? He couldn't help but think of all the times Party refused to change in front of any of them, or wear shorts despite the gazillion degree heat, not to mention his love for all things horrible fashion. Or whenever he patched up the Girl’s scrapes for her, practiced hands much too neat and efficient. Or all the times he’d hole himself up in the bathroom for way too long, or just straight up disappear without saying where he was going, which was definitely against protocol. Okay, both of those two things happened a lot, and Kobra knew that usually it had to be for entirely innocuous reasons. But now even the slightest strange incident in his memory was cast in a different and much more terrible light. 

Kobra fumbled around for a cigarette, lit it hastily and took a shaky breath of smoke. How could he have not seen it before? And _why_, good God, why hadn’t Party ever come to him if he was in that much distress? 

He took another drag and the sound of his own racing pulse in his ears receded a little. 

Some people were like that, he supposed. Some people would reach for anything before they reached for someone else. 

Kobra could understand that. It was one of the things him and Party had in common, though it manifested itself in different ways. Clearly. 

And Party was far too talented an actor for his own good. 

How long had this been going on? How could Party hide this from him, after all Kobra had told him, after all the secrets they’d shared? 

He’d never felt this helpless. It was his fault, after all. He’d insisted on treating that damn laser nick, and now Party wouldn’t leave his room for a week and never forgive him and the others — 

There were footsteps in the hall, and he heard Party’s door open and close. 

Kobra froze. Someone had gone in. 

And only one person in the diner had no fucking manners and never knocked. 

Shit, this could go very, very badly. Kobra supposed Ghoul could be kind, in his own way. From what he’d seen it was usually the if-you-accidentally-run-a-small-animal-over-in-the-road-run-it-over-again-to-make-sure-it’s-dead sort of kind.

__

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure Party could handle kind very well right now. 

__

He stepped closer to the wall. 

__

“Remind me to put a lock on that door.” Party’s voice, icy. The pencil scritching didn’t stop. “Drew the short straw, did we?” 

__

Shiny. He was on the offensive and ready for a yelling match, or worse. Kobra held his breath. He might have to go in there just to pull them off each other’s throats. 

__

But Ghoul’s voice was mild, unoffended. “No straws. Don’t be a bitch.” 

__

“Get out.” 

__

“Make me.” 

__

Silence. Party kept drawing. 

__

Off to a great start. Kobra didn't want to interfere yet, though. 

__

A floorboard squeaked. 

__

Party let out a snarl. “You want a pencil in your eye? Cuz that’s how you get a pencil in your eye.”

__

“Okay, okay! I just wanted to sit.” A creak of mattress springs, further away from Party’s voice.

__

After a moment, the scribbling noise resumed. 

__

“What’re you working on...? Aww.” Ghoul’s voice turned fond. Party must have turned it briefly for him to see. “It's just like her.” 

__

Party made a noncommittal sound, still scritching away. 

__

“You make it look so easy," Ghoul said.

__

“It is.” Party said. Pointedly. 

__

“Is it?” 

__

More silence. 

__

“With a lot of practice,” Party conceded, a hint of too-sharp laughter in his voice.

__

Kobra frowned. He'd thought they were still talking about art. Now he wasn't sure. 

__

There was a crash, and he flinched. Party had thrown something. Probably at Ghoul’s head. 

__

“Where the hell do you get off? Is this where you hypocritical bastards draw the line? Half the time you run around like you have a fucking deathwish, some days I’m still not convinced Kobra isn’t gonna drink bleach or stick a gun down his own throat and nobody can make him eat half the fucking time either, both of you chainsmoke like fucking chimneys and Jet, Jet, I don’t know, talks to aliens or something and Witch help us, the Girl somehow hasn’t been traumatized yet by any of the fucked up shit that happens to us on a fucking daily basis though it’s probably only a matter of time but this? _This _is what you won’t turn a blind eye to?” 

__

Okay, harsh. Kobra winced. Personally, he thought he'd been doing pretty well of late, all things considered. He tamped out the cig in his hand he'd forgotten about, a bit guiltily. 

__

“I didn’t say anythi – ” Ghoul barely had time to point out before Party went off again. 

__

Party was probably secretly glad it was Ghoul, actually, Kobra realized as he listened to him rant. Party could say anything to Ghoul, lash out with no fear of hurting his feelings.The two of them regularly fought over nothing like cats and dogs, spewing horrible things both knew the other didn’t mean. In fact, the better friends they’d become over the years, the more they fought. Witch knew they needed the aggression outlet. 

__

Then again, Party's words seemed genuinely venomous, and Ghoul was staying so unusually calm under the onslaught that Kobra had to wonder if he’d turned off his hearing aids. 

__

“...I’m handling it! I’m handling it!” Party was saying shrilly. (“Obviously,” muttered Ghoul. Still on, then.) “You have no fucking right to blame me for trying to keep you out of this! You think I – ” Party’s voice cracked, and Kobra’s heart broke a little more at the sound – “You think I _wanted _Kobra to see that? What do you want from me? I’m fucking _careful. _It is not a problem.” 

__

“You done?” 

__

“Fuck. You,” Party bit out between gasps for air. He must have been, though, because he didn’t say anything else. 

__

Maybe the worst part was over now. The loud part, anyway. 

__

There was something weirdly familiar about this, Kobra remembered absently. Years ago, when they found the half-feral stray they'd later come to know as Fun Ghoul, he was nearly in several different pieces after getting jumped by some gang. When it turned out Jet and Kobra had no idea how to handle him, Party was the one who took him under wing and nursed him with a surprising amount of gentleness. You’d never get Ghoul to admit it even at gunpoint, but he’d always been devoted to Party in particular ever since. He had decidedly not appreciated Party’s efforts then, however, and had cursed and hurled anything within reach and a couple times actually bit the hand that fed him. Party had tolerated it all with a patience Kobra'd never seen in him before. 

__

Pity neither of the two were in a state to appreciate the parallel at the moment. 

__

Kobra leaned in. Ghoul was finally saying something. 

__

“I’m not saying I get it,” he began carefully. “Cuz I don’t. Not the poison I’d pick, myself..." 

__

A cautious wry joke, a hint of a pun. An attempt to put Party at ease. 

__

Kobra moved closer, straining his ears. Hey, this was his own fucking room. If they were going to talk loud enough for him to hear from here, that wasn't on him. 

__

“Really?” Party said softly. “You didn’t do – that?” 

__

What? Oh. Party had to be gesturing at Ghoul’s face, the grim X-stitched scar that gave him a permanent badass half-smile. He’d had it as long as they’d known him and refused to disclose how he’d gotten it. 

__

A scornful snort from Ghoul. “No, doofus. Was that one of your theories? Jeez.” 

__

Silence again. 

__

“Poison...” Ghoul ventured. “You know how bad this looks, right?”

__

"It's _okay_," Party insisted gently in his most placating, most reasonable tone. "Ghoul, it's me. It's okay."

__

"No," Ghoul said, blunt. "Mother of fuck, Poison, it's not." 

__

He sounded as horrified as Kobra felt. Did Party really think that was a consoling line of reasoning? That because it was him it didn’t matter? 

__

When Party didn’t say anything, Ghoul pressed on. “You’re not the exception to every rule, Poison." 

__

“Try me,” Party muttered doggedly. “It’s not that bad. I can take it.” Like it was something happening to him, not something he was literally doing to himself. 

__

Despite the wall between them, Kobra could sense Ghoul’s rising frustration with Party’s inability (refusal?) to see how fucked up this was. Or maybe it was just Kobra's own. Even if Party truly thought this was as inconsequential as he claimed, surely he could understand it freaked _them _out. Maybe he was in too deep to care. 

__

“Fuck, dude, I don't even know where to start with that," Ghoul said helplessly. "Are you hearing yourself right now?”

__

"Hm. It's all relative, isn't it," Party said in his blandest voice. “Would you rather I did something else?" 

__

“What kind of qu – _yes_,” said Ghoul, because duh, there were dozens, hundreds of alternatives to _that. _“Anything.” 

__

“Anything?” Party said savagely. 

__

Kobra’s heart leapt into his throat. 

__

“Poison, please.” Ghoul sounded merely exasperated, so he must have been able to see that Party was just trying to rile him. Kobra relaxed a little. “I’m trying to help.” 

__

“I didn’t ask for help,” Party spat out. 

__

“Well, you’re getting it anyway, so if you’re so damn good at taking shit, sit the fuck down and take this too!” Ghoul snapped. 

__

Party must have counted finally getting under Ghoul's skin as some small victory, because he shut up. That or he was simply too exhausted to put up a proper fight anymore.

__

Ghoul didn't speak for a moment, a little ashamed perhaps that Party had succeeded in provoking him.

__

"Poison," he tried again, this time in a much quieter and more reluctant tone that for some reason sent a chill down Kobra’s arms. "I get that this..." he paused, and Kobra pictured him gesturing broadly to signify the whole painful conversation, “that this sucks, okay? But you know I gotta ask." 

__

"Ask wh…?" 

__

The air grew so still Kobra could hear the fly buzzing in his window. 

__

That horrible feeling struck him again, the feeling that his whole world could be on the brink of crashing down. 

__

“Oh,” Party said, like it had never seriously occurred to him, and then the words tumbled out all at once as he hastened to reassure Ghoul, suddenly repentant for making such a cruel joke moments before. "Nonononono, Ghoulie, no. No. It's not like that." 

__

He sounded like he meant it, and Kobra closed his eyes thankfully. Finally, some not fucking terrible news. 

__

If he suddenly couldn't have counted on his brother's hotblooded, passionate _aliveness _– if his loud and burning love for being free and awake and running had been a facade too, all this time – he didn't know what he would have done. 

__

"Okay." said Ghoul. "Okay. But for the record, if I ever, _ever _have to scrape your fucking brains off the ceiling or some shit, I swear I’ll desecrate your headstone with every Kidz Bop lyric I have the misfortune to know.” 

__

“Deal," said Party, a tired smile in his voice. "Really, I’m not. Witch help you all if there were more of us." 

__

Ghoul barked a laugh to hide his relief (it was a little forced, but it eased the tension in the air somewhat) and scoffed dismissively. “Pfft, it’d be fine, you’d just have to take turns." 

__

Kobra had to smile at that, his own sense of humor getting the better of him, and felt a little less terrible. Ghoul had gallows humor in spades, and Party had always responded more positively to that kind of thing than the most well-meaning empty platitudes anyway. 

__

"It's been a while, though." Ghoul's voice, sober again. It wasn't a question. Anyone could have seen that. 

__

“You know. Old habits,” Party said, low. Even quieter, barely audible: “It...it was a city thing. Never kicked it.” 

__

That long? Kobra closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the wall. Party had hidden so much from him. Kobra couldn't blame him; he had done the same, hadn't he? Party always had Kobra’s back, _always,_ and Kobra knew Party worried about him, but Kobra didn’t think his older brother realized how much taking shitty care of himself contributed to Kobra's fears. And this feeling was becoming all too familiar – the feeling that sometimes he didn’t even recognize who Party was. 

__

“You try?” 

__

A pause, like a shrug. “Had other battles to pick.” 

__

Ghoul didn’t reply to that. Just waited. 

__

“It was simpler, then,” Party said at last. “I just wanted to see a _color_, I wanted...” He trailed off. 

__

“Yeah,” was all Ghoul said. “I remember what that was like.” 

__

Then, nothing else. Nothing else for a long time. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriousness aside, I love how “talks to aliens” is literally the worst thing Party can think of to say about Jet lmaooooo


	3. Kobra

Once the Girl had gone to bed the three of them held an impromptu kitchen meeting, voices low.

Kobra, who wasn’t supposed to know anything, sat crosslegged on the counter and concentrated on picking the label off the can of beans in his hands.

“Well?” said Jet. He was looking at Ghoul. 

Kobra guessed it was no secret Ghoul had braved Party's batcave earlier. Everyone in the diner would've heard the yelling.

“I tried,” Ghoul said. “You’d think he was getting interrogated. Had a tantrum, wore himself out eventually. Still wouldn't let me near him. Pretty sure he was asleep when I snuck out.” 

“But is he.” Jet waved his arms around, a question he didn’t have words for. “You know. Safe?” 

“Hell if I know. He’s not itching to take a dive off the roof, if that’s what you’re asking. He just….” Ghoul dragged a heavily inked hand down his face. Kobra could tell he didn't want to be talking about this. None of them did. “Ergh. Has trouble coping sometimes, I think. With the anxiety shit.” 

Jet leaned down to rest his elbows on the stainless steel island, dropping his head to pinch the bridge of his nose and curse quietly to himself. 

Though Kobra and Ghoul both knew Party imagined himself their fearless leader, they also knew Jet was the one actually in charge of this dumpster fire of a crew. Shouldering the weight of that responsibility had to be especially heavy tonight. 

"Jet," Ghoul said. "It could be worse." 

"Yes. Still." 

This really was awful. Even Ghoul, usually antsy and flippant and armed with an arsenal of dark jokes in the shittiest of situations, was being eerily sober, and that made Kobra's skin crawl. 

He wondered uneasily if he'd ever been the subject of one of these uncomfortable, hushed conferences. Then he decided he probably didn't want to know. 

“No fuss.” He finally spoke up. “He hates it when people walk on eggshells around him.” 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Jet said drily. Party already had a habit of instigating petty fights with anyone who tried to treat him too nicely after a particularly nasty clap or whatever. He sighed and stood up straight again. “Okay. Well, everyone please just keep an eye on...” 

A door opened down the hall. Kobra glanced toward the sound, and when he turned around again both of the others had already made themselves scarce. 

Shiny. Thanks, guys. 

Party padded barefoot into the kitchen. He looked cold. He'd bundled himself up in a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized long-sleeved tee. His hands were smudged with charcoal pencil. Though his face was worn, his eyes weren't red, so he hadn't been crying. Kobra didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. 

Kobra watched Party take someone's cup from the island and fill it at the faucet. This was a positive sign, he guessed. He'd been afraid Party would shut himself in his room for days.

Then again, Kobra didn't know why he was surprised. Why wouldn’t Party be acting fine? He’d been acting fine all this time. 

He'd been sleeping better at least, for the most part, since he admitted to the nightmares he’d been quietly drowning in. He still often crept into Kobra's bed at lateass o’clock, a distraught wreck, confessing to killing Kobra again in a dream where he’d been a drac or a Scarecrow or whatever, and Kobra was rarely ever asleep himself anyway, so he always scooted over for Party to curl up against him and solemnly assured him he was forgiven for whatever the imagined offense had been that night and rubbed idle circles into his back until, exhausted, Party passed out again. 

And yeah, it kind of sucked because Kobra knew Party hated it with a vengeance, for putting that burden on him – and Kobra hated that it had to happen at all, hated seeing his older brother in such a tormented state of mind that he would willingly be so nakedly vulnerable with Kobra. But another part of Kobra felt so fucking blessed that Party felt safe enough with him now to do it that he didn’t mind. Really he didn’t. 

He’d thought that and the panic attacks were the worst of it. He must have been wrong. 

Surely Party hadn’t expected to be able to hide this forever. He must have known this scenario was inevitable, one way or another. And yet he’d seemed so completely stunned when it happened, unable to utter a word of defense or explanation. Maybe that was part of the desperate irrationality of the whole thing – being unable to prepare for that inevitability, think of any failsafes or come up with any reasonable retorts, the entirety of his backup plan simply the prayer that his luck would hold out and he could get away with it, just one more time? 

Party was drinking his water and ignoring Kobra. Kobra couldn't get a read on him. Couldn't tell if he blamed him. He wasn't sure how much Party even remembered from this morning, after how checked out he’d looked. 

Party didn’t seem that much more aware now, either. He was looking at his drained glass like he’d forgotten why he had it and what it was for. 

It was probably for the best that Ghoul had stepped in when he did, Kobra decided, and shoved away the faint nagging jealousy in his chest that there was anything Party would rather talk about with someone else instead of him. If he was being honest with himself, he was a little grateful to not have been the person who had to deal with Party earlier. He should say something now, though. 

“Hey,” Kobra tried. He slid off the counter. 

“Hey,” said Party, a little warily. He set the cup down and tried to walk past Kobra again, signaling that this was the end of the conversation. Kobra didn’t move out of his way. 

He knew it wouldn't end well if he asked Party in this brittle state if he was alright, or tell him he was sorry, or that he wished he could help. 

So he just said: “It can be him. I don’t care who it is. But it has to be somebody, okay?” 

Party stared at the floor and nodded, barely, like he was almost too tired to make even that small effort.

He looked so lost that Kobra instinctively reached out to him before thinking better of it and letting his hand drop. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Kobra said. He didn't mean to, but it came out anyway. 

Party wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You never asked.” 

He had a point – he hadn’t lied. _I’ve never lied to you, K, never once in my life_, he’d said once, and Kobra had to admit that was still true. Party had only been trying to protect him, again. Though it didn’t make any of this okay, that was all it was. In paradoxical contrast with his wild, antic-loving side, Party was a fiercely private soul, and Kobra was learning the hard way that with every new layer he discovered, he had to get Party to trust him all over again. 

It was demanding. But Party was his brother, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything less for him. 

He had never fully grasped back in the city what that meant, having a brother. Him and Party's bond had been so strong even back there, in spite of the medication, that he’d thought that was the extent of it – the tangle of adoration and protectiveness, the inside jokes, the wordless language they grew up sharing. 

He hadn’t known before the desert, before getting off the mindnumbing cocktail of pills, how much loving someone could hurt. 

Kobra wanted to plead with Party not to keep any more secrets from him. Please. Ever again. But he wasn’t one to stoop to begging, either. 

He was about to let Party past when Party leaned into him all of a sudden, dropping his head against Kobra's chest. A weary, armless hug that had given up on being a hug and settled for the next closest thing. 

“I’m good,” he murmured into Kobra’s front. “I’m good, K. I shoulda been more careful.” 

There was no actual apology in the words, though it sounded like it was meant to be an apology just the same. 

But it was all wrong, somehow. Like he wasn’t really sorry for doing it. Just for how it made Kobra feel like shit, and for being careless enough to get caught. 

Before Kobra could react Party pulled away, brushed past him and retreated back to his room. 

~~~

The next day Kobra turned the bathroom inside out under the guise of looking for something else, but he didn’t find anything. He knew there was no real point, anyway. There was no way they could possibly keep everything Party could use away from him. 

And Party had made no promises. 

It was uncanny how fast things went back to normal. How easily everyone seemed to slip into their usual routines. Party favored his left leg for a week or so while the worst of the laser burn healed, and that was all. 

Kobra watched the others interact like nothing happened. Watched Party laugh a little too hard, sing a little too loud, dance a little too long. Watched the Girl, thankfully oblivious, dance with him. Watched Jet treat everyone like he always did, with a no-nonsense sort of maternal concern. Watched Ghoul tinker and blow shit up and plot insane raids and pranks and try to get Kobra to join in. 

After all, had they ever not lived around a whole set of unspoken secrets, rules, habits? Stepping carefully around things they didn’t know and never dared to question?

He remembered Party’s words in the kitchen that night, the silent entreaty underneath asking him not to worry. 

He remembered, too, how hollow Party’s insistence that he was fine had sounded, and kept watching. 

~~~

It was nearly a month later when, one afternoon, Kobra realized with alarm that Party had been shut in the bathroom for like, a billion years. An hour, at least. 

Kobra rattled the doorknob. “Party? Lemme in, I need the flatiron,” he fibbed. 

“Fuck off." 

“Just unlock the door.” 

"Can’t, I’m dyin’." 

Kobra’s stomach flipped at how matter-of-factly he said it. 

Oh. Hair dye. Duh. He was an idiot. But Kobra still felt ill, like something was wrong. 

He hovered there for a minute. He contemplated getting a screwdriver. Or kicking the door in.

Instead he went out to the backyard and found Ghoul. Well, his feet at least, sticking out from under the car as he banged at something with a hammer that he probably shouldn't be. “Ghoul. Ghoul! Hey." He kicked at Ghoul's boot. 

The banging stopped and there was a faint click. "What?" 

"Surroundings awareness, fucker, keep your ears on. You gotta go get Party.” 

“It saves batteries, dipshit. What’d he do now?” 

“Nothing. Something. I don’t know,” Kobra said. “He, he locked himself in the bathroom and I can’t get him to come out.” 

That got Ghoul's attention. He rolled out from under the trans am, muttering a choice expletive under his breath. “Okay, let's go.” 


	4. Ghoul

Ghoul went inside with Kobra trailing behind, and pounded on the bathroom door. “Poison, it’s Ghoul. Open up or your crop top collection starts going in the garbage disposal.” 

He had followed through on enough similar claims in the past for Poison to know it wasn’t an empty threat. They didn’t have to wait long before the lock clicked. 

Ghoul exchanged a look with Kobra, and went in. 

“Leave my crop tops alone, asswipe, or I’ll put _ you _ in the garbage disposal,” Poison said mildly, angling his head at the mirror as he tried to smear dye on with his bare hands. 

Ghoul shut the door behind him and surveyed the scene. Poison, no surprise, had made a total mess. Somehow he’d managed to get the stuff on the floor, the tub, _ and _ the walls. 

He took a breath of relief, and tried not to cough at the sharp chemical scent in the air. “Who'd you murder in here? Having fun?” 

“Ngh. Can’t get the fuckin’ back.” 

“Let me.” 

“There’s not gloves.”

Ghoul just tapped on Poison’s shoulders. 

Poison hesitated, then sat down crisscross on the tile floor so Ghoul could reach.

Ghoul hadn't thought he would actually take him up on the offer. Poison let him play with his hair sometimes -- he somehow managed to keep it so clean and shiny and vivid and _ soft _ all the time that Ghoul couldn't resist -- but he had never let Ghoul do this.

Ghoul scooped a bit of the bright red goo out of the bowl with his fingers, picked a strand at random and started rubbing it into the natural ash brown color just beginning to peek through. For all the dye everywhere, Poison hadn’t actually gotten much of his head coated. Personally, Ghoul didn't think it was grown out enough to even need it yet. Poison was kinda vain about that, though. 

“Your brother worries,” Ghoul said as he worked, after several minutes had passed. “Be nice to him.”

Poison coughed incredulously. “Nice? You’re one to talk. I’m the nicest motherfucker you’ll ever meet. Jet excluded,” he amended.

“You know what I mean.”

Poison apparently did not. “What, and let him barge in here to hog the mirror? He can wait his damn turn like everybody else.” 

Ghoul shook his head. “Forget it.” 

He finished the last section of hair and started massaging the color into Poison’s scalp with his fingertips to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots, and Poison closed his eyes. 

~~~~

Of course Kobra came to pester Ghoul once he was back outside.

“He was touching up his roots, dumbass,” Ghoul said. He held up his stained hands as evidence. “He’s perfectly fine.”

“Ghoul, if he’s looking at me, I can see when he’s not telling the truth.” Kobra said unhappily. “He knows I can.”

What did that have to do with anything? “You freak out too much. You know you don’t need come running to get me every time he tries to take a piss in there, right?” 

“I – ”

“Scram, Snake Boy, I have work to finish. If you have a problem with how I handle the shit you ask me to handle, handle it yourself.” 

~~~

Ghoul didn’t understand half the shit Kobra ever said, anyway. It was Poison who Kobra had the uncanny wordless language with, not him. That kid was pretty much unintelligible to anyone else. 

Kobra’s words were still rattling around in Ghoul’s head later that evening, though. He’d obviously been trying to communicate something he thought was important. 

_ If he’s looking at me, I can see when he’s not telling the truth. He knows I can. _

But Kobra hadn’t even seen Poison, so why had he been so convinced something was wr…

_ Shit_. 

If Poison truly had nothing to hide, he wouldn’t have refused to let the Kid in. 

Ghoul replayed the bathroom encounter in his head. It was a fucking clever cover, the hasty dye setup. He recalled now how glassy Poison's eyes had been. How gingerly he’d lowered himself to the floor when Ghoul asked. How he’d acted ignorant, deflected questions – hell, completely distracted him from even asking the right questions. 

He tried to remember the last time Poison _ hadn’t _ dyed his hair in private, and couldn’t. 

Had it all been dye in the tub, on the floor? 

_ Shit shit shitshitshitshitshit_. 

_ ~~~_

So again, and probably not for the last time, Ghoul found himself standing outside the bathroom. 

It’d been a quiet spell, too. That’s what Ghoul didn’t understand — nothing had happened. They were all safe. Supplies were sufficient, patrols scarce. No claps, no infighting, no more terrible secrets come to light. No distressing circumstances out of the ordinary. 

Maybe nothing needed to happen. Maybe it was simply the anticipation of the next bad one that had become unbearable, pushed him over the edge. 

The bathroom door was open, spilling yellow light into the hall. Half an hour ago Jet had nearly thrown a fit when he saw the state of the place, and demanded that Poison clean up after himself. Uncharacteristically, Poison hadn't argued. 

Ghoul hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Served him right for making such a mess. 

But seeing Poison on his hands and knees scrubbing at the red stains on the tile was so _ wrong _now, suspecting what he did, that Ghoul had to swallow back a noise of horror that threatened to escape his throat. It had to be dye, right? 

Poison looked up and saw him standing there. 

“Sorry,” Ghoul said. 

Poison sat back on his heels and blinked at him, frowning a little. “What for?” 

So casual. So innocent. For a moment Ghoul dared to hope that maybe he was wrong. Still, he needed to know for sure. 

Ghoul took a breath. “For not being able to tell when you’re lying.” 

Poison’s eyes snapped to his, whole body going as tense as a trapped animal. Just for a second, Ghoul saw him trying to calculate what Ghoul really knew and if he could still play dumb. Make a run for it. Laugh it off. Anything. 

Just for a second. Then Poison dropped his eyes. 

It confirmed everything Ghoul feared, and his heart sank. 

There was nothing he could say. Nothing left to do except take a step forward. Another. 

One step more, and Ghoul was right in front of him. He braced himself for the inevitable punch or defensive upflung arm. 

It never came. Poison didn’t move. Couldn’t even look at Ghoul. 

He was shivering. Oh, Poison. 

Gently, gently, Ghoul brushed the freshly dyed hair away from where it fell over Poison’s eyes and cradled his face in his palm. 

Poison didn’t react. But he wasn’t pulling away, either, so Ghoul sank down beside him on the cool tile floor. He let his hand slip down to the back of Poison’s neck and drew him in to his shoulder, taking care to not jostle his legs, and wrapped his other arm tight around his trembling body. 

And, caught entirely off guard by the rare tenderness in Ghoul’s touch, Poison let himself be held.


	5. Ghoul

What pained Ghoul more than anything was that Poison didn’t cry. It wasn’t that he was trying not to, it was more as if he couldn’t — all emotion already drained out of him, only aftershock left. Ghoul could barely feel Poison's ribcage rising and falling against him, like he simply didn’t have the strength to sob. 

Ghoul ran a hand up and down Poison’s spine, slow and steady. Poison shuddered at the touch and turned his face into Ghoul’s chest. 

"_Hurts_." The whimper came through clenched teeth, so quiet Ghoul barely heard it. 

Whatever the physical damage, that alone would never be able to rip such a godawful sound from Poison, and for the second time in his life Ghoul wondered if it was possible to die from heartache. And he couldn’t tell him _ I know_, because he didn't, so he just cradled him there, with Poison's small frame almost in his lap somehow although Ghoul was even smaller than him. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Could have been five minutes. Could have been hours. 

He also didn’t know how long Kobra had been standing in the doorway, blank horror stamped on his face. 

Ghoul didn't move a muscle for fear it’d alert Poison to someone else's presence, even though his back was to the door and his face was still buried in Ghoul’s shirt. 

_He's fine, _Ghoul mouthed over Poison's shoulder, which was a barefaced lie. But this wasn't a fucking spectator sport, and he’d fight anyone who tried to disturb them, even Kobra. 

Kobra hesitated, openly torn. 

And then his expression changed, softening into a peculiar and almost fond one, and Ghoul realized he and Poison must make an oddly serene picture, actually — bathed in the surreal, hazy bathroom light like they were, and considering the small miracle that Poison had allowed Ghoul to get anywhere near him. 

And Kobra relented. _ If you fuck this up I will fuck you up, _he signed viciously at Ghoul, throwing in a throat-slashing motion and a two-fingered I'm-watching-you point for good measure. He left. 

He owed Kobra an apology, Ghoul thought absently, for not taking the whole brotherly vibes shit more seriously earlier. 

He returned his attention to the young killjoy huddled against him, and immediately forgot all about Kobra. 

Poison was practically boneless in his arms now, like a sleeping kid. His breathing was so quiet that at first Ghoul thought he might actually be asleep, but it was too shallow — the breathing of someone still awake, just too spent to move or make a sound. Fuck. Ghoul forgot most of the time just how young Poison was. Barely more than a boy. Forced to grow up too fast and run too far. 

Poison stirred. Afraid he was on the verge of freaking out and jerking away, Ghoul fought down his urge to grab onto Poison and force him to stay. Instead he murmured a wordless reassurance and began stroking the back of Poison’s head, running his fingers through his hair the way he knew Poison liked best, and Poison melted back into him. 

Ha. Poison never could resist the hair thing. 

He wished he could tell Poison that this was what he deserved, _ this, _not whatever the fuck he’d been doing in here alone, before. Poison would probably just laugh his too-sharp laugh if he did, or get up and leave without a word, so Ghoul didn’t dare. 

Time slowed to a standstill again. 

By the time the seconds resumed ticking past at a somewhat normal pace, the two of them had somehow rearranged to where they found themselves now, Ghoul leaning on the outside of the tub with Poison curled up between his legs, his back against Ghoul’s chest and Ghoul's arms looped loose around him, their fingers entwined. Just sitting there.

"You're going to break our hearts, you bastard," Ghoul murmured. It wasn't an accusation. Just a statement of fact. Of how it would be if they kept finding him like this.

"I know," said Poison. 

The utter resignation in his voice twisted in Ghoul’s gut like a switchblade. Like he had already accepted a long time ago that outcome was inevitable. 

Ghoul wracked his brain for anything he could say to break the awful silence and came up empty. 

Poison broke it for him. 

“Don’t tell Kobra,” he said. 

Ghoul hesitated. “He knows.” 

Poison shut his eyes. “Goddammit.” 

He didn’t bother asking how. Kobra just knew things. His head fell back against Ghoul’s shoulder, like he was silently berating himself for not taking more precautions. 

Ghoul thumbed idly over Poison’s dye-stained hands. Despite the ragged nails and calluses, they were artist's hands, clever and delicate. Capable of creating so much beauty. 

And so much pain. 

"Poison?" he began.

"Don't.” Poison sounded miserable. “Don't force me to make promises I can't keep." 

"I have your back. I'd do anything." 

"You're not always here." 

Poison wasn’t accusing him, either. It was just another statement of fact, and he was right – it couldn’t only be Ghoul. And if Poison refused to be helped, even having all of them on the lookout wouldn’t do a lick of good. 

Poison traced Ghoul’s palm. Ran a finger over his tattooed knuckles. 

“I’m learning,” Poison went on, bitterly. “I did pretty well before, til that day. And I've figured out what not to do anymore. You’d never know.” 

“I’m learning too,” Ghoul said. “You better watch yourself. I can read you like a fuckin' book now.” 

The last bit was supposed to be a joke — a hyperbolic boast, though there was some truth to it — so he was gratified when Poison exhaled, a hint of a laugh. “Can not.” 

Ghoul pulled him closer and pressed a desperate kiss to his shoulder. "Not that kind of promise, then. Just tell me you'll say something, before. To any of us, when it's starting to get bad, and we’ll go from there. Please.” 

“Ghoul…” 

“Don't make me do this again," said Ghoul. "I mean, this is nice, but not like _ this_, okay?” 

He untangled their hands, and hooked his little finger around Poison’s. 

“Not like this,” he repeated. “Pinky swear, c'mon." 

"I'll give you a finger to swear on," Poison muttered. (Ah, there was the Poison that Ghoul recognized. A glimpse of him, at least.) But despite his words, Poison tightened his pinky around Ghoul's. 

Witch only knew how much effort the small gesture must have taken. Ghoul gave him a squeeze and nuzzled at his ear in a rush of relief-fueled affection. Thank fuck. It was going to be a tough slog, that was undeniable. Still, Poison was one of the stubbornest motherfuckers Ghoul knew, and if there was anyone who could kick this thing’s ass it’d be him. 

But not tonight. Tonight was for cuddles, and for getting the hell off this cold hard floor. 

“Bed, yeah?" Ghoul said, and—when Poison started to make a noise of alarmed protest—quickly added, "I'm coming with you." 

Poison relaxed and nodded. That was all right, then. 

Ignoring his own stiff back and limbs, Ghoul shifted out from under Poison and tugged at his arms. “Up, up. Things will suck less in the morning.” 

“Yes, mother,” Poison grumbled, letting himself be pulled upright. Ghoul watched his face closely, but he didn't wince at all. 

He supposed Poison had a lot of practice at that. 

The thought was enough to make him keep a comforting arm around Poison, careful not to break contact. And on their way out with his free hand Ghoul flicked off the light. 


	6. Epilogue (Ghoul)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter used to be the end, because I don't like my endings over-resolved, but it just didn't seem finished. Then this idea came to me, so here you go.

They figured it out, eventually. 

Poison didn't make promises lightly, and he put up a fucking good fight. For one thing, he did his best to avoid being alone at night. That was a big part of it. He pretty much moved into Kobra's room, which he was cool with cuz Poison already spent most nights in there anyway. And although the Girl knew nothing about it, she was an observant child and often noticed before anyone else when Poison was becoming too withdrawn. Poison could never refuse her whenever she asked if he'd be her nighttime buddy, and that helped too. 

(Not everything was a problem either, strangely enough. For one thing, Poison kept a pocketknife on him, like they all did — in Ghoul's case, several — and when Ghoul thought to ask if Poison wanted him to keep his for him, Poison stared at him in mingled disgust and horror. "Are you shitting me? You've seen me cut up Girlie's food with this thing, I'd never." Ghoul quickly backed down, and as far as he knew it never became an issue.) 

As for the rest of the time, if it wasn’t too bad yet, Poison would find the Girl and get her to work with him on a new mural to cover one of the few blank walls left in the diner, just for the company and the distraction. Or he’d determinedly braid dozens of tiny intricate rows into Jet’s hair, who sat for the surprise attack beauty sessions with good-natured resignation. If Poison was engrossed in Jet's hair, he wasn’t running around getting himself into trouble somewhere Jet couldn't keep his eye on him. Whether or not he picked up on Poison’s restlessness, Jet probably figured the tradeoff was well worth it. 

If Poison just needed to let off steam, he took to bugging Kobra until he had enough and snapped, “You wanna go?” and took him outside to box with him, despite the fact that Poison had historically avoided sparring with Kobra simply cuz he hated to be bested. (Though Poison was a chaotic and serious threat in a brawl, his form sucked and if Kobra was annoyed enough to go full MMA mode he could effortlessly hand Poison his ass.) In the beginning, Poison spent more time on the ground than upright, but he kept heaving himself back up and insisting he was good to go another round until he couldn’t stand up straight and Kobra called it off. He wasn’t too shitty at it anymore, actually. And if Kobra suspected what brought on Poison’s new obsession with the sport, he had the sense not to mention it. 

When it got unbearable, however, Ghoul was the one Poison sought out, though he apparently couldn’t force himself to tell him so without going about it in an infuriatingly indirect way. The first time, he picked an argument with Ghoul over something so trivial that Ghoul became genuinely pissed off before he grasped the real reason why he was being such an dick. Party had gone so far as to throw a punch at him and Ghoul was reflexively throwing one right back when it struck him that it wasn’t really anger Poison was visibly shaking with, so he checked himself midswing and swooped in to gather him up instead. Poison, just as stunned by this as before, slumped into him almost immediately with a muffled sob of relief that he could finally drop the facade. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Ghoul told him the third time it happened, after the worst had passed and Poison was busy quietly doodling his way up Ghoul’s arm with a sharpie. “You don’t like it?” Poison said, surprised and a little hurt that Ghoul didn’t appreciate the epic Frankenstein’s monster wrapping around his bicep. “No, no, that’s sick, I love it,” Ghoul said hastily, “I just meant, you don’t have to try to rearrange my face every time. It’s not like I don’t already know.” 

Poison hummed noncommittally. Ghoul must have gotten through to him, though, cuz the time after that he cut the bullshit and made a beeline for Ghoul’s lap without pretense. And Ghoul already had a sharpie waiting in his pocket. 

But it wasn’t always that simple. It could still be pretty nervewracking, and over the stupidest little things too. Like the time Ghoul noticed Poison standing at the bathroom sink in a kind of daze, staring at the pair of nail clippers in his hand like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. “Earth to Poison. You good?” Ghoul said, resisting the impulse to snatch them away. “I know, I know,” said Poison, and handed them over obediently. “I’m good.” And he was. Still, Ghoul tried not to think about what would’ve happened if he’d gotten there much later. 

He found out soon enough. In the wake of a particularly brutal week of nightmares not long after, a ragged and sleep-deprived Poison spent most of the day at Ghoul’s side. They were forced to part ways that evening cuz Jet and Kobra had some sketchy deal going down with another crew that they needed Ghoul on backup for, and Poison in no shape to come along. By the time the three of them returned, Poison and the Girl were cutting out magazine pictures together for a collage, but Ghoul saw the careful way Poison was moving and avoiding his eyes, and the minute he could get Poison alone he pulled him into a fierce hug. “You stupid, stupid sonofabitch.” “Sorry, sorry Ghoul, sorry. It crept up on me. I should’ve…” “Hey, hey. We shouldn’t have left you alone. We’ll do better, right? We’ll both do better.” “I didn't mean to,” Poison kept insisting, “I _promised_.” Ghoul believed him and couldn’t be angry, but Party was, and it took Ghoul a good while to calm him down. They were both more vigilant after that. 

The sharpies kind of became their thing. It kept Poison occupied and gave him an outlet, something to watch appear under his hands — and it helped remind him to be gentle, cuz it was someone else, and cuz Ghoul was usually deliberate about complaining if Poison started digging in too hard with the felt tip. He never let Poison use the red ones. Poison griped occasionally about not being able to fulfill his true artistic vision without them. Ghoul told him to suck it up. 

(“You could do you own, too, if you need to. If no one’s around,” Ghoul said at some point. “Hm. Better not,” said Poison. “It’s different.” And he would know, so Ghoul didn’t suggest it again.) 

On the really rough days Poison didn’t care what he drew, and Ghoul didn’t care either. Usually it was just scribbles. “Do all the swears you know,” he dared Poison one particularly bad time, in an attempt to distract him further. Poison chuckled grimly at the idea and set to work, and Ghoul did his best not to wince from Poison's nails as he gripped his arm to keep it steady where he wanted it. Better him than Poison, anyway. It was quite a long list, requiring both arms — a list Poison surveyed a little proudly when he was finished, though his face fell again when he caught sight of the red crescent marks he’d left on Ghoul’s skin that Ghoul was discreetly trying to keep out of sight. “You didn’t say anything,” Poison said, stricken. “You're okay. It’s okay,” said Ghoul, but it took pretty much a whole afternoon of cuddling to convince Poison it was. 

Another good thing about their newfound routine was that it became a way for Poison to save face while signaling that he needed someone with him, without unnecessarily worrying anyone else — which, thank fuck, made him much more likely to ask before it became too severe. “C’mon, I need your arm,” he’d go, yanking at Ghoul’s jacket cuff to pull him away from his conversation with Kobra. “I’ve got this idea for a coyote, but it’s like, this giant undead coyote because it got experimented on during the war, right? It’s a whole sleeve, it’s gonna be rad.” And Ghoul always let Poison drag him off somewhere quiet for a doodle session, and subjected himself to running around with radioactive ghost wolves or whatever on his arm for the next week. 

(“Still doesn’t seem like I’ve really licked it,” Poison confessed several months later, as he carefully colored in the zombie cactus he'd drawn on the side of Ghoul’s neck, “Like, yeah I have a good streak going, but it feels as if I'm just...putting it off, ya know?” “That’s all you promised,” Ghoul said. “One day at a time 'n shit. It always passes, doesn’t it? That’s all you _ can _do.” “I guess,” Poison said finally. He didn’t sound convinced.) 

The ironic thing was that it ended up going both ways, in the end. Ghoul was having a generally shitty day of his own once when he found himself approaching Poison and blurting out some lame art concept he’d pulled out of his ass three seconds ago. Next thing he knew, Poison was clambering happily all over him with a mouthful of markers trying to get the best angle for the design, and Ghoul realized with some guilt just how much he himself enjoyed the calm and closeness of the ritual. 

As for Poison, he'd been so charmed to be asked to do anything art-related that he couldn't have noticed at the time how agitated Ghoul had really been. Yet he came up behind Ghoul a few hours later, unprompted, and ran a sympathetic hand down the finished piece on his skin like an apology and an acknowledgement both, so Ghoul would know that he knew, and that he wouldn’t mind if Ghoul asked again. And Ghoul thought that maybe, just maybe, Poison was secretly a little pleased — not that Ghoul had been feeling like shit, but that he had been able to help. 

It wasn’t perfect. Even so, it was theirs. And it was enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, my lovelies.  
SH phone hotline: 1-800-366-8288  
Crisis text hotline: Text CONNECT to 741741


End file.
